


subterfuge isn't subterfuge if you don't know what the hell you're doing

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2018-04-27 22:14:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5066422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The entire idea was ludicrous, and terrified John a whole hell of a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	subterfuge isn't subterfuge if you don't know what the hell you're doing

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to [benaddicted4life](http://mermaidbatch.co.vu/) who stepped up to bat when I was out of luck. And to [astudyinrose](http://astudyinrose.tumblr.com/) who I showed this to when it was but a sprig of a thing and who encouraged me throughout.

The night is unremarkable, which makes it even more shocking when Sherlock comes up behind his chair and runs his hands down over John’s shoulders. Warm and welcoming, the pads of his fingers feel good pressing into the meat of John’s upper arms.

“Mmm,” John’s face tilts up, until he can glimpse Sherlock’s.

“Let’s go out,” comes the easy suggestion. The fire pops in the grate, trying to tempt them to stay inside.

John licks his lips, gazes at Sherlock, admiring the way the firelight glimmers in his eyes. He’s so warm and content in front of the hearth, but Sherlock is so rarely this relaxed and wanting to simply _go out_ for the novelty of it. “Alright, what are you in the mood for?”

Sherlock swings around, tosses himself into his chair and stretches out, tips of his toes pulling up to balance on John’s knees. “Tapas.”

“Angelo’s, then?” John always enjoys returning to the location of their first real interaction. Plus the chorizo and wine list are both outstanding; he certainly doesn’t need any prodding to agree to go to dinner there.

Sherlock presses the pads of his feet into John’s patellae before hastily pulling off and hopping up, a wiry pillar of energy. “Yes. Let me change.”

John listens to Sherlock go before rising to his feet, albeit rather more slowly. What he’s wearing isn’t entirely unsuitable for an evening at Angelo’s, but if Sherlock is outfitting himself in something other than the very smart black shirt and trousers he has been wearing, then John can put forth a bit more effort as well.

Besides, he’s been waiting for an adequate occasion to present Sherlock with something important, and this could very well be it. John has been thinking on it for weeks, finding certain times that he thought were suitable before backing off and restrategizing. 

He hadn’t wanted to manufacture an event or an occasion - that would have been too obvious. It wasn’t a stretch to say that if he’d planned it, Sherlock would have read it on him in a second. More importantly, planning something like this would be disingenuous to their entire relationship. It had to be natural, it had to be spontaneous and it had to feel just _right_.

It had to feel _perfect_ , as ludicrous as an ideal that was.

Because quite frankly, the entire idea was ludicrous, and terrified John a whole hell of a lot.

The idea had come to him quite organically one evening, a seed planted gently into his brain. Waking up next to Sherlock and rolling over to get a lovely view of his spine – stark relief in cream against the dark backdrop of their room at night – John had begun to think of a great number of futures; all of which involved himself and Sherlock, living together far into their later years. Waking up to this sight - Sherlock’s gorgeous back as they lay in their bed together - was something that John couldn’t imagine doing without. 

And so John let the thought flourish and bloom and take a strong and healthy hold in his mind. Forever. He didn’t dissuade the idea from germinating, from growing out of control, climbing the trellis of his own mind palace until it had taken over every bit of habitable space. The sentiment that had spurred the idea wouldn’t change, of that John was sure, absolutely positive, willing to bet his life on it.

And so John took his time, searching for just what he wanted. John thought and thought on it, letting the novelty of it wear off as the finality of his decision settled in. John bode his time, worrying and not alternately, waiting for a particularly appropriate moment to bring his plan to fruition.

Even now, even though it feels right, John knows he should play the evening by ear, see where it takes them. They’ve spent their lives together living like that, and it’s treated them with such adventure that John thinks that this is the only natural way to proceed.

And contrary to what people might think of Sherlock, the man does enjoy surprises.

He climbs up to his old room and pulls open the wardrobe door. John actually appreciates that he and Sherlock keep their clothing in different rooms; he hates having to look at his very sensible (thank you very much) jumpers next to Sherlock’s posh Tom Ford button downs. He had accepted Sherlock’s room, Sherlock’s bed and Sherlock’s bedding, but had insisted that they keep separate closets; Sherlock’s chiding of John’s wardrobe choices every time he’d opened the cupboard hadn’t helped matters either.

He extracts one of his better sweaters – cashmere, deep navy – and finds a vest to toss on beneath. John doesn’t bother with cologne, knowing that it would give too much away– _Why all of this effort suddenly, John?_ –but runs a comb through his hair; he supposes he could do with a shave, but Sherlock does so like the feeling of John’s stubble against his nipples.

And regardless of how the evening unfolds, John is sure that will be on the agenda for later.

He tugs on a blazer and smooths it down in the mirror, satisfied that he’s managed to clean himself up a bit. When he meets Sherlock in the sitting room, however, he once again feels woefully underdressed. Sherlock is standing, staring down at his phone; the shirt he’d decided upon is crisp and dove gray; John isn’t sure he’s seen it before and finds that it’s quite a nice surprise. The trousers are a darker gray, nearly black, and hug his arse in a way that’s entirely inappropriate.

Sherlock looks effortless in his fashion and beauty; it’s completely breathtaking. He often dresses for John’s benefit, a fact Sherlock had let slip one evening, and that John was touched and more than just a bit aroused by. Sherlock enjoys dressing up for John because John so enjoys unwrapping him of all of his smart, pressed clothing. It’s an incredibly intimate gesture, and John sighs, knowing that Sherlock had thought of John undressing him even as he put his clothing on just now.

When Sherlock glances up, his gaze sweeps over John, top to bottom and back again. “You look… good.”

“Don’t I always?” John asks, wiggling his eyebrows playfully, not returning the sentiment. Sherlock already knows.

“Yes,” Sherlock concedes, reaching over to snatch up his own blazer. “But generally I don’t so desperately want to get you out of your clothes.”

John chuckles and reaches for his wallet on the coffee table. “Shameless flatterer.”

“With good reason,” Sherlock says, quiet, with a smile, and then bends to drops a sweet, casual kiss on John’s mouth. “Shall we?”

John leads them out of the flat, and manages to hail them a cab on the corner. Sherlock is visibly pleased by that, as he’s the one whom the duty is generally relegated to, and ushers him into the vehicle with a warm hand on his back.

“So,” John says with a happy sigh and a lick of his lips as the vehicle pulls out into traffic, glancing over at Sherlock who is still engrossed in his mobile. “What’s the occasion?”

Sherlock blinks up and looks at him with mirth in his gaze, pocketing his phone; he’s open and pliant and happy, and it makes John’s heart thud painfully in his chest. For an instant, John imagines not having _this_ , imagines a dozen futures _without_ Sherlock and swallows past a lump in his throat.

Sherlock brings both hands to cup over his patellas and shrugs. “Haven’t had a nice night out in a bit.” He looks perfect, looks _relaxed_.

John turns his attention out the window, smiling. “True, three months ago, was it?”

“With the champagne,” Sherlock chuckles.

“Our anniversary,” John reminds him.

“Our _not_ anniversary,” Sherlock contests.

John had made a reservation at a posh new restaurant in Soho for their anniversary, a date which neither one of them could agree upon. John counted from their first admission of affection for one another, the evening they first kissed. Sherlock counted from their first meeting which–while romantic–John couldn’t get on board with.

Over dinner they’d argued over the date, managed to polish off a bottle of Clicquot and had taken their dessert home with them, so overcome with the desire to tear into one another that they couldn’t wait. John had ended up licking chocolate mousse off of Sherlock’s stomach, something that they’d since vowed never to try again.

The hangover in the morning had been spectacular and though they both had had raging headaches, they carried on their argument about the proper date of their anniversary until Sherlock had gotten wrapped up in a case and had forgotten about it.

“It’s the sixth of January,” Sherlock mumbles.

“Twenty-second of November, for the _last_ time,” John growls back, though he wears a grin.

The rest of the cab ride is silent, with John sliding his hand across the seat to rest atop Sherlock’s. It’s pleasant and it strikes him how normal all of this has become; if he were to go back in time and tell a recently medically-discharged John Watson that he’d be in a very serious and very public relationship with a man, well…

John doesn’t discount how far he’s come. He doesn’t discount how far they’ve _both_ come.

It’s not long before they’re pulling up to the kerb in front of Angelo’s and Sherlock leans forward to pay before John even has the chance. It’s a nice surprise and John takes his hand as they walk up to the restaurant, a brief grasp and squeeze, something they don’t normally do. Sherlock squeezes back before leaning over to hold the door open for John. They wait for a brief moment, Sherlock’s hand low on John’s back, before they are seated.

It’s their usual table, in the front. Some might find that sitting at the same table time and again is predictable and boring, but John’s enjoys the routine of it. He enjoys the way Sherlock opens his knees and spreads his arms across the low back of the booth. It’s predictable in a lovely way. He likes that they _have_ a table, that this is something special between the two of them.

They’re greeted by Angelo, quickly – the restaurant is at capacity – and Sherlock orders a bottle of wine that John knows is wildly expensive. “You’re paying for that,” John says, dryly, and Sherlock waves him off with a flip of his hand.

For a bit they watch out the window, at the people streaming by on the busy sidewalk. John allows himself to fall into memory – something he often does, here – and recalls their first evening seated across from one another. The candlelight, the tension he couldn’t make sense of, the way Sherlock practically vibrated with energy to solve the case.

He didn’t know it at the time, but that dinner at this table had changed him irrevocably. He peels his eyes away from the passersby, gaze falling on Sherlock, who glances up to meet his eyes.

“You know,” Sherlock says, his palms spreading out by his thighs on the seat. “I actually find myself hungry today.”

John smiles, reaches over and rests two fingers against the skin of Sherlock’s right hand. “Thought as much, what with you wanting to go to dinner.”

Sherlock blinks and then in a flurry of movement, leans forward and snatches up the menu. “I _meant_ ,” his prismatic eyes scanning the selection. “I can _eat_ tonight. I intend,” Sherlock says, flipping the page to scan the wine list out of habit, “To order rather a lot of food.” Sherlock’s gaze flickers up to meet John’s, “I hope you’re okay with that.”

John licks his lips, smiles and huffs out a little laugh, “Whatever you want, love.”

“What _ever_ I want?” Sherlock adds a salacious and comical waggle of his eyebrows, for good measure. 

John snatches the menu away and then swats at Sherlock’s arm with it, “Within reason, you tart.”

They do indeed order an unreasonable amount of food, including two plates of patatas bravas because Sherlock always hogs the dish for himself while claiming not to enjoy it at all. John picks at bread and Sherlock admonishes him for even bothering to eat it for fear of ruining his appetite. 

“When has my appetite _ever_ suffered?” he asks, tossing a bit of the crust at Sherlock, a childish move, but one that elicits a delighted, surprised giggle from across the table. When John settles his hands back on his napkin, his knuckles brush against the hard little bulge in his inside jacket pocket and he swallows thickly.

Not that he’d forgotten about it, but acknowledging that it’s still there… he wonders if Sherlock can read every single emotion that thrills through him in that moment. John hides his mouth behind his wine glass, takes a measured sip and then refills their glasses.

“Getting me drunk?” Sherlock asks, swirling his wine and drinking deeply.

John grins in a manner that is decidedly indecent. God, Sherlock truly is a sight. Just watching him flirting, the way he knows just which of John’s buttons to push, makes John’s heart clench. He’s sure, he _knows_ he’s sure; just looking at Sherlock like this, he is so, _so_ sure.

Still, he’s terrified; he can’t begin to anticipate how Sherlock will react. He knows Sherlock _so well_ but has no idea how this will all go over, if this is something Sherlock wants. He knows that Sherlock would never deny him anything, but that isn’t enough, not with something of this magnitude. 

He wants Sherlock to want this like he does. 

Sherlock can’t _not_ want this, can he? He’s proven through action and thought and speech just how deeply he loves John; that alone should be enough to prove that this is something that Sherlock would be amenable to, shouldn’t it? John has spent so many hours pondering just this that it’s become an almost boring topic of thought. Much like when someone says a word too frequently and the meaning becomes moot, he’s unsure whether this is something he’s overthinking. 

Whether he should just do it. Whether he’s covered all of his bases...

He rolls his eyes at himself and takes another swig, allowing himself a moment to appreciate the taste of the vintage on his tongue. “Wouldn’t _dream_ of getting you drunk in public,” he mumbles, picking up the thread of the conversation. “You get handsy.”

“As though that’s a complaint,” Sherlock returns, snaking a hand beneath the table to grip up high on John’s thigh before pulling away. 

It’s this easy companionship that John oftentimes finds himself knocked sideways by. To say that he thought that he would never have this with another person was an understatement. The fact that he had all of that and more with Sherlock, well…

John didn’t believe in fate or divine intervention, but Sherlock Holmes – sitting next to him in a cab, his knuckles warm and prominent beneath John’s palm – made him second guess nearly everything. Everything shifts again and John feels complete calm.

All of this back-and-forth morphing of his emotions is beginning to take a toll on him and John feels tired, as though he’s being pulled slowly down into a warm bath. It’s all entirely so much that for a moment John forgets to breathe. 

How do people _normally_ go about proposing, he wonders. Then John recalls that he’s actually proposed to someone before and _that_ is something he hadn’t considered. How could he have forgotten that.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow at him as he tries to pull himself from the clutches of memory; he’s going to bollocks all of this up before he’s even started.

But then their food comes and Sherlock begins putting things onto plates, taking tastes of things and moaning as the food touches his tongue. Sherlock immersed in food is an interesting thing; when he’s interested in eating, Sherlock makes a show of it. John is certain he doesn’t know he’s doing it, but when Sherlock has a bite of something he truly enjoys, his head tips back and his eyes close and he lets out an indulgent little moan that immediately lights John’s libido.

John picks at his food finds his tastebuds muted, somehow. He puts a scallop onto his plate and cuts into it–the sensation of cutting through that springy flesh usually strangely pleasing to him–causes no reaction. But still, he goes through the motions, trying to enjoy it.

John is just serving himself a bit of aubergine when Sherlock primly touches his napkin to the corner of his lips and excuses himself to the loo. As he passes John, he gives a squeeze to his shoulder.

Out of habit, John watches him walk away towards the back of the establishment. Just before he reaches the bathroom, he’s intercepted by Angelo. John can’t make out what they’re discussing, but when Sherlock reaches out and pats Angelo twice on the shoulder – an unusually open show of affection for Sherlock, John decides.

For a man who pretends to be cool and calculating, unfeeling and unattached, Sherlock Holmes is the best and kindest man he’s ever known. He’s shockingly considering, entirely loyal and oftentimes, when no one is looking, incredibly compassionate. And John _loves_ him so deeply he can feel it in his damned _eyelashes_.

Without another thought, John reaches into his pocket and extracts the small bit of metal from the folded square of soft cloth. He leans over and rests it down, pulling his hands away once it’s settled as though he’s been burned. He doesn’t take his eyes off of it until he feels Sherlock run his index and middle fingers over the nape of his neck as he’s returning to his seat. 

It’s the fact that Sherlock’s attention is on him, that Sherlock is smiling at him as he takes his seat, that John is granted an extra second of teetering on the edge of nerves and elation.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker down and his mouth smooths out, no longer tipped up in a smile. John has utterly no idea how to process that little drop of mouth. Sherlock’s lips even and close and finally, Sherlock meets John’s eyes once more. 

His back is so straight he appears statuesque and he goes to touch the ring but pulls away at the last second. “What is this?”

“I uh,” John says with a little smile. He takes a breath, wets his lips, and forges on. “I didn’t think you’d forgive me if I ruined this vintage by dropping it in your glass, so…”

There’s a beat of silence.

“What?” Sherlock says again, staring down at the titanium band resting atop his folded napkin. “What are you talking about?”

 

John gestures down to the ring with a nod of his head; there’s static between his ears and a roiling in his stomach. No matter how _sure_ he is of all of this, this is perhaps the most anxious he’s ever been. “Marry me.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow as what little blood is actually in his face, drains. “Why?

John clears his throat, swallows against the sandpaper there. He swears, _swears_ he can hear his heart beating in his ears. “Well, it’s great for taxes.”

“Is that why, then?”

John laughs sadly at himself and glances down at his hands, folded tightly together in his lap. “It’s because I love you, you great idiot, but the tax thing is a bonus, yeah?”

“You’re... “ Sherlock pushes the napkin further away from him on the table with his right pointer finger. “Taking the piss.”

“Swear I’m not,” John replies and pushes the napkin back to where it had been on the table, with his own index finger.

“Really?”

John swallows again, more sure. “Yeah. Let’s get married.”

“...John.”

“Sherlock Holmes. Will you marry me?” He takes the stem of his wineglass in between fore and middle finger and swirls it around atop the table, all the while keeping his eyes on Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s Adam’s apple bobs as he takes a large swallow of his wine. “Not getting down on a knee, then?”

“Too old for that.” John chides and mimics Sherlock, just to have something to do. “So what about it?”

Sherlock blinks down at the ring, scrutinizing it. He’s silent for a time, allowing the ambient noise from Angelo’s fill the space between them. John isn’t in a rush, never has been, and so he sips at his wine and waits on Sherlock, the alcohol soothing a bit of his nerves.

He’s waiting on Sherlock, just as Sherlock had waited on him. It’s all fine.

Sherlock settles back, draping his left arm around the back of the booth. “I never meant to fall in love with you,” he speaks, not to John, but to the ring.

“Yeah,” John sighs and smiles, slides lower in his seat, his legs stretching out beneath the bridge of Sherlock’s. “Never meant to fall for you either, and look where that’s gotten us.”

Half of Sherlock’s mouth turns up before it falls once more; for a brief moment he looks inexplicably sad. “I never meant to fall in love with you and yet,” Sherlock takes a breath, gaze darting up to meet John’s for a moment. “I feel like I should have known that all of this would happen from the start.” He glances back down at the ring, slipping it over the pad of his right thumb. “That we wasted so much time…”

“Neither one of us were ready,” John says.

“No, no, I suppose not.” Nimble fingers pluck the ring from the table and he brings it to his face, examining the simple band. “This is cliche. The place where we first met…”

“Yeah, probably,” John agrees, sighing and leaning back against his seat. “But.”

Sherlock holds his hand up, looks through the void in the center of the ring and then slips it onto the proper finger. They both stare at it for a moment, before Sherlock turns his hand this way and that and then snatches up his napkin and places it back on his lap.

“Yes,” he says simply, pulling a plate of red snapper towards himself. 

John goggles as Sherlock serves himself. “Yes?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says simply, taking a bite and chewing. “I will marry you.”

“You,” John begins, huffing an incredulous laugh. “You dick! I worried over this for months and-”

“Reaction not suitable for the situation?” Sherlock asks, pulling a look that is so transparent; he’s feigning ignorance. 

John can’t help it, he tips his head back and laughs, long and loud, disturbing some of the other patrons. Angelo sweeps over, places a bucket with champagne in it on the table and grasps John’s shoulders. “Sherlock, you said yes, then?”

“Of course,” Sherlock smirks, primly cutting off a piece of snapper.

“You knew!” John laughs again, “You _knew_ you absolute bastard. You let me stew over it for months and-”

“Tonight,” Sherlock says simply while fighting to keep the grin off of his face. “You gave yourself away. But I didn’t know before tonight.”

Angelo pats John on the shoulder one last time and then uncorks the champagne, pouring them both out a healthy serving. Once he’s gone, John leans over into Sherlock’s space. “You let me sit here for an hour-”

“I wanted you to propose,” Sherlock cuts him off, placing his cutlery down and taking John’s left hand in his larger ones. “I wanted you to propose because… it’s something I…”

“You…”

“I’ve imagined, John,” Sherlock sighed. “I’ve imagined it and you, _you_ constantly surprise me. Had thought you’d be traditional this go round-”

“Hey, with the _this go round_! And… the ring is traditional enough! I-”

Sherlock ignores him. “I didn’t expect this, I didn’t expect…” He sighs, smiles and then takes John’s face between his hands, kisses him gently on the mouth. “Thank you,” he says, right against John’s lips. 

John smiles, pulls back, isn’t used to public displays of affection as far as he and Sherlock are concerned. They stare at one another for a moment, Sherlock soft and open and John in wonder. “We should toast,” Sherlock says, finally and lifts his glass.

“To…” John begins, but finds that he doesn’t have the words, his gaze caught as the light glints off the band on Sherlock’s finger.

Sherlock slides his free hand over to rest on John’s knee. “To… an enemy bullet, to Mike Stamford, to a woman in pink and to you, John Watson.”

“And, of course, to you,” John brings his glass to clink against Sherlock’s. How far he’s come. How far _Sherlock_ has come. How far they’ve come together. “Sherlock Holmes. You damned romantic.”

“Romantic? Hardly! Now, make yourself useful and pass the patatas bravas,” Sherlock says, but he doesn’t lift his hand from John’s knee.


End file.
